


i have wounds only you can mend

by stitchingatthecircuitboard



Series: can't pretend [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchingatthecircuitboard/pseuds/stitchingatthecircuitboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm telling you, princess," you say, and you make your words serious and sincere as you can; you’re building something, here, something that’s more than the wall and tents, and you can’t risk that for one dead boy. "You want a riot on your hands? Don't say anything."</p>
<p>In hindsight, you should've known she'd do exactly what you told her not to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i have wounds only you can mend

**Author's Note:**

> pfft yeah yeah stitch "embarrassment to society" "outrageously gay" circuit strikes again. like you thought i wouldn't. 
> 
> part 2 of the "wouldn't it be great if bellamy blake were a queer lady" 'verse, i swear this is all riga's & maría's fault, the darn enablers.

“Bella,” Octavia says, leaning over you, her thumbs light on your cheekbones, brushing away a stray curl. When you were younger, she used to tug at your hair just to see it recoil, thick and curly despite any attempts to tame it, hers painfully straight and perfect, like your mother’s. 

“Bellamy,” she says. You refocus, try to breathe, the air thick and coppery in your lungs. “You’re okay. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“That’s my line,” you wheeze, and cough, but it works: she laughs, the fear in her eyes breaking for a moment. You said that to her the day she was born, Aurora bent exhausted in her bunk, Octavia soft in your arms. You meant it then, fiercely and unreservedly, with more conviction than your six-year-old body could stand, and held her close to your chest, cherishing the way she gurgled against your ear.

You’d do it again, you think; you _know_. You’d do anything for her, in this life or any other. She’s your sister. How could you not?

“Don’t you fucking die on me,” Octavia says roughly. 

“‘M not going anywhere,” you murmur. “Never going anywhere.” 

Her face, her hard uncompromising eyes, the fall of her eternally straight hair: the last you see before darkness takes you.

 

 

"You know what this means," Clarke says, and there's something uncharacteristically beseeching in her tone; like she's begging you for this one thing, god, please. 

It's not as heady as you thought it'd be, the princess begging you for a favor, because you know she's right, and the boy you took on as second is a murderer. You should have known. You should not have trusted him as far as you have, and now the entire Jaha family is dead at your hands. 

Still, you force yourself past your guilt, past your fear. You can handle Murphy, you know that; you're of a height with him, better with a knife, and you've worked harder and have the muscle to prove it. It's the only way you, a janitor, had been able to lead this far. 

"I'm telling you, princess," you say, and you make your words serious and sincere as you can; you’re building something, here, something that’s more than the wall and tents, and you can’t risk that for one dead boy. "You want a riot on your hands? Don't say anything."

In hindsight, you should've known she'd do exactly what you told her not to. 

 

 

You can't blame her. Her best friend is dead, and it's your fault. 

 

 

Octavia has lived her entire life between four walls and beneath them, and for an exhilarating hour, you think you can show her the world. You make the mask yourself, blue as the Earth she'll see for the first time tonight. She looks beautiful, strange, unknowable: ravenous. You want to offer her the world on a plate and watch her eat it.

 

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, desperate, a tear tracking down her cheek and you have to remind yourself that she’s not even eighteen yet, that you’ve got five years on her, that of _course_ she turns to you in this even if it’s her fault and you’ve screamed as much at her —

“Bella,” she says, a sob ripped from her, “don’t do this, I know you’re not a killer —”

You kick the stool, watch Murphy drop, dangling grotesquely from the tree. You barely recognize him. Clarke’s screaming, her hands on your arms.

“This is on you, princess,” you snarl, “should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

 

 

At twelve, Octavia watches you speculatively.

“Bella,” she says. You’re eighteen, just started training for the Guard. You want nothing so much as to sleep, but Octavia comes first; she always does.

“Yeah, O,” you say, the words rumbling in your chest. Aurora calls you ‘bear’ in the mornings, when you’re hoarse and deep from sleep; you’ve always sounded so serious, she says, clipping your hair short to Guard specifications. 

O hesitates: unlike her, and you shift, turn, squint at her. She sticks her tongue out at you.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?” she asks.

You keep still, quiet, try not to tense and, judging from her exasperated exhale, fail.

“I won’t tell Mom,” she says.

Aurora already knows. That’s the least of your problems.

“No,” you say, curt and firm and do-not-enter written all over you. “Nope.”

Octavia makes a face, turns back to the sock she’s darning.

Sighing, you sit, stretch; try halfheartedly to tame the hair that wants to stick out in every direction, newly freed from gravity’s sway. 

“O,” you say gently. “Why?”

She stabs the needle through the sock with more vigor than is necessary.

“It’s just —” she says, “—I’m never going to, and it’s not fair and I just wanted to know what it’s like.”

“C’mere, sis,” you say softly, and she rolls her eyes and curls into you, squirming to get comfortable. She’s so much smaller than you; she takes after Aurora that way, lithe, slim, lacking any trace of your gawky awkward limbs that take up more space than you think you’re allowed in this room built for two.

You thread your fingers gently through her hair, weaving a braid; she sighs, leans into you, and you — settle. There isn’t another word that works for what this feels like.

“Octavia,” you whisper, "I don't — I'm not interested in boys." You swallow, tense, as though a word could break you. From her, it can. 

But Octavia snorts, presses closer. "No frigging duh," she says dismissively. 

It's not what you meant. Does it matter? You'll never be able to act on it. 

You press a kiss to the top of her head. "Love you, O."

 

 

"Slay your demons," Aurora tells you. It's her second favorite way to motivate you both: remind you exactly what to be afraid of, tell you not to be afraid. 

On Earth, things aren't so contradictory. When Charlotte wakes with a scream, you soothe her, the way you used to bring Octavia from beneath the floor, a firm hand at her shoulder, a soft meaningless murmur, _it's okay, I've got you._

Her parents were murdered, she tells you, sniffling, and you remember your mother, gone before you had a chance to explain, to apologize. You suddenly don't feel so bad about shooting Jaha. An eye for an eye; Hammurabi who etched that into Mesopotamian clay. 

_He had it coming,_ you think; but so do you.

"Slay your demons, kid," you tell Charlotte, fixing the end of her plait. "Then you'll be able to sleep." 

 

 

"I'm scared," you whisper to Octavia, blood leaking from your nose, tears unwilling in your eyes. 

 

 

Charlotte flits from you to the princess, hungry for attention, affection, a warm look, a gentle hand. Clarke cleans the grime from her face; you wrap her fingers around the crude handle of a knife, one you made, and teach her to throw it. You think of her dead parents, and wonder uncomfortably whose shoes you and Clarke are filling.

 

 

Don’t think about it like that. You know how to be a sister, so be a sister. Don’t pretend you know how to parent.

 

 

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you," Octavia says, fierce, determined. She looks as though she’s going to war with the words, as though defeat is not an option. You remember Helen of Troy, for whom a ten-year war was fought, and think historians were fools. Wars were not fought for Menelaus’ pride, not for ten fucking years, but for love of a woman.

You think maybe you misnamed your sister, with that ferocity on her face, the Grounder who would go to war for her sake, Clarke furious, saying _I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing it for Octavia,_ Jasper calling her name, fighting past his trauma to save her; you, who became a murderer rather than abandon her to another caretaker.

 

 

There is blood on Clarke’s hands, like there is on yours, but she’s gentle, kind when she kills. “I’m going to help you,” she tells Atom tenderly, smoothing his hair back from his brow. 

You know how to kill, you think; you shot the Chancellor, desperation guiding your hand, and didn’t stop to see him fall. You’ve killed animals on hunting, for practicality, for purpose: to feed Octavia, the rest of the hundred. You cannot lead them if you cannot provide for them.

To kill Atom would make you an executioner, you think, but Clarke — 

You misjudged her, you think; you need her, if you’re going to get through this.

 

 

“Get Clarke whatever she needs,” you order, back at camp. You don’t look at her, preferring to deal with the body, Octavia, the meat that needs to be cooked, but you sense her watching you as she calls for boiled water, clean rags, alcohol, for Monty and Octavia and Finn to help her hold Jasper down. 

It’s the first time you’ve said her name; if anyone notices, they say nothing, so you don’t either. You need her, so you need to be something she needs. You need to offer her something, if only to even the balance between you. You hate owing people.

“I tried to take him out,” Murphy tells you, sullen, resentful, “but your psycho little sister —”

 

 

You adjust Charlotte’s grip on the knife, wait patiently.

“Screw you,” she mutters, not meeting your eyes. “I’m not afraid.”

 

 

“My what?” you shout, hands fisting in his jacket, shoving him back violently. “My _WHAT?”_

 

 

Charlotte ducks her head in embarrassment, then looks, meets your gaze.

“Screw you,” she says clearly. “I’m not afraid.”

You pat her knee comfortingly. “Slay your demons, kid,” you say, an echo of your mother, the mother whose death is on your hands for the sake of the sister you can’t imagine life without.

 

 

“Yeah,” you say, breathing heavily, letting Murphy go. “That’s right. My little sister.”

Those not helping Clarke are frozen, staring.

“Get back to work,” you snap, and the stillness shatters into activity. You look at the dropship, catch a glimpse of vanishing blonde hair, bright in the firelight. 

There’s blood on your hands. You go to wash it off.

 

 

“It was me,” Charlotte cries, tears streaking down her face, “I killed Wells.”

“Oh my god,” Clarke says, more horror in those three words than you think you’ve heard since Shumway demanding Octavia’s identification, since your mother whispering _I need your help, Bella,_ since the sounds you couldn’t make when Octavia looked at you and said “How do I get back to the room?”

Clarke, unhesitating, horrified, grabs your ax, cuts the noose her words wrought for Murphy. You stare at Charlotte, remember the wound in Wells’ neck, how you’d caught her staring as you and Clarke lifted Atom from the forest floor. You should have known. God, you should’ve known.

 

 

There is always blood on your hands. You think back to Octavia’s birth, the red of your mother’s blood, the spatter of Jaha’s guts, Atom, Jasper, Murphy, _Wells —_

There has always been blood on your hands. From the start, you were a killer.

 

 

Clarke pulls you off Murphy, expression shifting from horror to grief to desperate hope.

“So help me,” you seethe, “if you say _the people_ have a right to decide —” 

 

 

Atom, Wells, Finn, Jasper, Murphy: you underestimate her, every time.

 

 

One of the older girls, days away from being floated when the dropship was sent down, smiles at you over the campfire, like she has a secret and might be willing to share. 

She slips into your tent after everyone else has gone to sleep, kisses you, slowly, and maybe you’ve never done this with another girl before, but you know how it works, or enough to bluff through it, and pick it up quickly enough. She’s slick when you reach down, and you can’t bite back your gasp at the feel of it. She smiles, presses her teeth to your breast, mouths at you while you bring her off with your fingers, your thumb on her clit, two — three — curling inside her. It’s so good you want to die, in that moment, but then she shifts, puts her knee between your thighs, pulls your hips closer and, god —

 

 

You’re sore the next morning, tender where you rubbed off on her. Clarke scrutinizes you when you duck into the dropship, looking for Octavia, and you wonder if she knows, if she can read last night on you the way you knew the instant she’d slept with Finn. 

You don’t say anything, and neither does she.

 

 

Everything goes to shit when Raven arrives.

You should’ve known it was too good to last.

 

 

She dares you to kill her, and holds a knife to your neck; Clarke snarls at you, fair, kind features suddenly cold and furious. You remember the way she spoke to Charlotte, that last summit in your tent: _you can’t just kill someone to make yourself feel better!_

The way she looks at you, the three hundred lives in the balance because of your mistake, your fucking _selfishness_ — god, Bellamy, don’t you know you can’t just kill hundreds of people to keep yourself safe.

 

 

Octavia recoils when you try to explain.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she says, horrified.

 

 

_Monster._

 

 

You’re dead, you think bleakly, watching three hundred and twenty bodies burning in the atmosphere; you’re dead.

Raven comes at you, fire in her eyes, but Clarke holds her back, holding your gaze uncompromisingly. 

“She knows, Raven,” she says, “and now she has to live with it.” 

There is something like pity in her eyes, but you must be imagining it.

 

 

Clarke is on her own more, now that Raven is here and apparently unwilling to let Finn out of her sight, fuck knows why; you don’t understand why either of them bother with him. 

Octavia sits with her, talking seriously, and Jasper clings to Octavia like a shadow. Monty runs ideas past Clarke, past you, then vanishes off to the dropship with Raven in tow. Finn is not worth noticing, in your opinion, not that you advertise it.

Clarke seeks you out more often: to compare notes on foraging missions, to organize preparation for winter, to find what Raven needs to keep all of you safe. 

“Come on,” she says brusquely, appearing at your side as she does so frequently. You wonder how she finds you so easily.

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Bellamy,” she says, “you’re like a flagpole. Tallest person in camp, though I’m at a loss as to how. We’re running out of seaweed, and I want to try to see if Finn was right about there being a beehive down by the river.”

 

 

You shove Murphy, his proffered tin cup of water, away ineffectually before Clarke takes over. She’s pale, with circles bruised around her eyes, but she’s smiling and her voice is steady.

You think you hear him mutter “bitch” as he moves to the other patients, but you’re too — tired, to deal with that on top of everything else.

“You trust him?” you ask Clarke. You can’t quite keep the disbelief from your voice.

“No,” she says, and holds your gaze, her hand firm around yours holding the cup. “I do believe in second chances, though.”

 

 

Finn was right, it turns out, about the bees if nothing else. Clarke makes you start a fire, shed your undershirt to protect her hands as you waft greenwood smoke towards the hive.

“Use your own, princess,” you complain, but she’s already got yours in her hands, and you’re already irritably readjusting your remaining clothes. 

She laughs at you, pulls her jacket over her head, and ducks towards the hive. You keep wafting the smoke, worrying that she won’t be able to breathe, that the bees will swarm her, but she’s out minutes later, a chunk of honeycomb in her hands as bright as her hair.

You complain about the honey leaking onto your undershirt, but she shoves a piece of comb into your mouth, laughs when you sputter indignantly, the honey shockingly sweet against your tongue. 

“Don’t swallow the wax,” she warns you; “we can make candles.”

You think about the winter coming, shorter, colder days, the homes you have yet to build. Candles could make all the difference — and honey, over the nuts and berries you’ve gathered, could make delectable what’s merely palatable now. 

“It’s good medicinally, too,” Clarke tells you — for burns, for scrapes, preventing infection, easing sore throats.

You spit a wad of wax into your ruined undershirt and grin at her. “Looks like we need to figure out how to domesticate bees, princess.”

She grins back. The sun gleams in her hair, the sky-blue of her eyes, and for a second you can forget everything terrible that’s happened, the lives you owe, the lives you’re bound to protect, the blood and guilt and responsibility heavier to your shoulders than the world to Atlas’. 

 

 

You think about kissing her, that night. You think she’d taste sweet as the honey she fed you, that she’d lick it from your mouth meticulously, hands holding you firmly in place as she leaned over you.

You can’t sleep, so you slip your fingers to yourself, rub at the slick tender heat of you with one hand and bite down on your other to keep quiet. There’s honey, tacky on your fingers, sharply sweet on your tongue; you come when you taste it.

**Author's Note:**

> of course i'm not done.


End file.
